Two Fictions
Dave Erlewine

Home Goods

I say something. My wife says something back. I grin. She grins. I frown. She glares. I yell. She claws into a rack of fat lady pants. The old woman in Customer service announces a name. A hairy-armed cop asks for a photo. I point. My wife points back. The lights above us glow.

My Boy

My wife's mother smacks Nate. "What was that for?" I ask, softly. Her gaze stays on Nate. "Nathaniel, are you two or seven?" Nate howls, runs out as she sips coffee. On his bed, I tickle his feet.

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